


worth a thousand

by feralphoenix



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5145476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asriel, Chara, and their beat-up old camcorder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	worth a thousand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aerora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerora/gifts), [eeh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeh/gifts), [Keltena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keltena/gifts).



> _(it’s time for goodbye again_ – the daytime leaves me feeling [fragile and exposed](http://marchenwings.tumblr.com/post/131609946004/the-sun-is-too-bright-for-me-the-daytime-leaves))
> 
> "WHO… BROUGHT A CAMCORDER TO CHARA DYING…"  
>     - [aera](http://starfaits.tumblr.com/post/131107881849/oh-my-god-most-of-the-lab-tapes-have-a-reason-they), at one point
> 
> also partially inspired by adrienne's [mega cute charasriel comic here](http://insertdisc5.tumblr.com/post/132379045015)

_Click. Click. Whirr._

“—never seen any of these before, except in old movies.” Chara’s face comes into view, first out of focus, then somewhat clearer. The room is lit from inside by your lamp, and the shadows on their skin are stark, throwing their features into dramatic relief: Red eyes lined with bruisy bags, messy red-brown hair falling at disparate angles and partially obscuring them, cheeks rosy but far too hollow for a ten-year-old child. Then they lean back, and their colors seem to soften as they take on the ambiance of the room.

“Really?” And there’s your voice. Tinnier than Chara’s, at first, but then there’s a jostle as they hand the camera back to you and you settle it on your lap, and even though your finger’s in the frame, you start to sound clearer. “Then how do people take home videos anymore, out there?”

Chara lifts a hand and runs their fingers through their hair, tucking it behind the shell of their ear. Despite the quality of the video itself, it captures all the things you hadn’t paid attention to at the time: The bandages around their wrist and the heel of their hand, the blotchy maroon stains that flower there.

“Well—we’ve still got video cameras. They record onto DVDs now though. I think you can take videos with a phone now too.”

“What’s a dee vee dee?” you want to know.

Chara tilts their head at you, looking perplexed. “It’s like… I don’t know what DVD actually stands for, but it’s like a CD with a movie on it, I guess?”

The video doesn’t capture your expression, but it does reflect Chara’s reaction to it: They pull a face. “You guys really _are_ way behind the times with technology.”

You shrug, bumping the camera a bit, because technology was never something you were all that interested in. “All we can get is whatever the humans throw out, so yeah, of course.”

Chara goes tense where they sit. Their eyes narrow; they look away from you. “Yeah. I didn’t—yeah, that’s true.”

The camera shifts in your lap as you squirm. “Um—I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t mean it like it’s your fault or anything! This is just how it is. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

Chara shakes their head. “I didn’t mean it like that either. I mean, it’s—it’s kind of cool like this, it’s retro.” Their expression relaxes some. “It’ll be kinda fun, seeing if we can figure out how to make it work.”

You pick the camera up, and the video jitters, swinging wildly from a view of the ceiling to a blurry closeup of your nose to the front of your shirt. “I dunno. Mom and Dad said we could play with it however we want as long as we don’t break it, so—”

You push a button. The video ends there.

 

 

_Click. Click. Whirr._

“Chara… hey, Chara!”

The video focuses, a little jittery in your unpracticed hands, on a view of Chara from behind. Dapples of light spot their hair and their shoulders, and everything around them is gold and green: They’re in the garden. They turn at the sound of your voice, expression curious and blank.

“What’s the camera for,” they say, flat, raising one hand to point. With their free hand, they tuck the book they were holding under their arm: You’ve interrupted them studying ancient runes again.

“You should, um,” here the camera jostles a bit, and then becomes steadier as you use both hands. “You should do your creepy face!”

Their eyes widen for a moment, then narrow. The low-fidelity film nevertheless captures the way they pale for a moment, then the darkening of their cheeks the moment before they turn back around. “No.”

“Aw, how come? You should do it! I brought the camera and everything!”

 _“No,”_ Chara says, louder. Their shoulders shake, briefly. “Why?”

“Because it’s cool!”

They stiffen, then. They turn slightly, and there they are, they’re doing it: Their eyes are narrowed, seeming to suck in the light and not let it go; their mouth is a long, long, thin, thin crescent, malicious and stretched.

Your squeal of delight is rendered into a painful thing by the recording. When you watch the tape back over, it makes you wince. But you watch it anyway, because through your cheerful giggling, there’s Chara, whose eyes are going wide, whose smile has slipped and left them blank-faced.

“It’s so awesome!” you tell them from behind the camera. “I love it when you do that, it’s scary and cool! You’re the best, Chara.”

They’re blinking rapidly, and bring their hands up to rub at their eyes.

“Chara?”

They give up and cover their face with both hands.

“Chara, are you okay?”

“Nothing,” they say, a little muffled in their hands.

“It doesn’t _sound_ like nothing,” you reply, a little dubious.

“Nothing,” they insist. But even at this point you’d already started to realize that they only talk like this when they’re really upset.

“Chara—”

You had the presence of mind to shut the recording off there, but you still remember the rest of the conversation. You had to piece the beginning together from their monosyllabic responses, of course. But they told you about getting hit for not smiling right. Getting yelled at, shunned for being too creepy.

They said you were the first one who was ever happy to see them smile, and—the soft expression they made then, that was even _better_ than their creepy face. You’re always going to regret that you couldn’t put that on video too.

 

 

_Click. Click. Whirr._

The shot focuses on your bedroom, softly lit, Chara sitting sideways propped up on pillows so their own shadow won’t block the lamplight. Your hand is more practiced; the video doesn’t shake anymore. Chara’s tired eyes are half lidded, gaze down at the knitting needles in their lap. Their sore-scored hands are wrapped in bandages. The rhythmic clack of the needles is slower and more faltering than usual.

“Smile for the camera,” you tell them. Your voice sounds sad even to you. Chara’s head whips up.

“You’re actually recording?” they say, and their face twists into a bitter half-smile. “What a waste of a tape. We’re not even doing anything fun.”

“You’re knitting,” you say. “That’s fun, right?”

“Maybe if I could actually move my hands right,” Chara says, and they look back down, making a low noise like a little growl. “I hate doing this with all these bandages on, but I don’t want to get the needles gross either.” They set whatever it is they’re making down on the bedspread with a sound of disgust.

“No, keep doing it,” you urge them. “I want to tape it.”

Chara leans back against the pillows, sighing. “It’ll just be me messing up a lot and swearing, so don’t. I don’t want you to have blackmail material on me. You know how mad Toriel gets when I talk like that.”

You’re quiet for a while, holding the camera. Chara cracks one eye open. “Stop looking at me like that, dummy. I told you why I don’t want to.”

“I still wanna tape it,” you say, stubborn. “For—for later. Even if you’re having trouble. I wanna—I wanna remember.”

Chara smiles a little; it’s half grimace. “You’re such a sap,” they say, but they sound fond. “C’mere, you big baby.” And they pat the bed next to them.

The video swings as you tuck the camcorder under your arm, and bounces with your steps. It jostles one last time as you jump up onto the mattress, and then you set it down against your knees. Most of what reflects in the frame now is the far wall and the lamp, but Chara is visible to the left, and so is half of you. You set your head on their shoulder; Chara wraps one arm around you and leans their cheek into your forelock.

“When this is over,” they say, “we can knit together. I can start teaching you how now, but I don’t want you to tape it. You know you don’t actually have an unlimited number of tapes to use. I hate embarrassing myself on camera anyway, you should save these for something special.”

You sniffle, loudly. “This _is_ special. Being here with you, it’s special. And who knows how long…”

Chara brings a hand up to pat awkwardly at your teary face. You remember the sensation of their fingers on your cheeks, so stiff and clumsy where once they’d been deft. “We’re not talking about this on camera, stupid. …It’s gonna be okay, Asriel. I still don’t get why you keep getting so upset about me.”

 _“You’re_ the stupid one,” you say, smiling, “if you really don’t get it after so long.”

Chara looks very sad for a long while, their eyes distant. “I guess we’re just a couple of idiots then,” they say, and crack a smile back. It’s slow, sweet, pained; watching it on the screen makes it feel like something hot and bright is being strained through your ribs, pulled out around your breastbone. “C’mon, Asriel, turn that thing off already.”

“Okay,” you say at last, and you bump the camera once, twice, three times while you grope for the right button.

 

 

_Click. Click. Whirr._

“Oh, come _on,”_ Chara grates out, their voice somewhere between a rasp and a wheeze. Their breath bubbles in their lungs as they exhale testily. “Stop taping me, I look like crap.”

They really do. They’re gaunt and clammy, their eyes are unfocused, their lips are cracked and their nose and fingernails are ringed with blood. They can’t even sit upright without help anymore, and are reduced to lying on a mountain of pillows to keep their head up.

“No you don’t,” you lie from behind the camera. “You look much better today.”

Chara wrinkles up their face. “You have a sick sense of humor,” they say.

“I’m not joking. You really do.”

“Well, you should also know that flattery can only get you so far when it’s obviously false,” they retort, but they look mollified. For a few seconds, anyway. Then they cough, and something bloody and gross comes up, staining their ravaged mouth.

The camera sways a little as you look around for something to pass them—a tissue, a cloth—but they’re dragging their right arm out from under the covers to drag the back of their wrist over their face. Their bandage and sleeve soak up most of the blood; the rest of it smears.

“Ick,” Chara proclaims, detached, as if it isn’t even their problem. “I sure am looking forward to not having to deal with this anymore.”

Your distress must show in your expression, because they sigh and roll their eyes, exactly the way they did before all this, back when they were healthy.

“Stop carrying that camera everywhere, though,” they say. Offscreen, you make a face. You’re grateful for the topic change, but even so. “I mean, I, uh, guess it’s nice you think spending time with me’s so special, but you never seem to put it down these days.”

There’s a squeak of plastic that’s you holding onto the camcorder more tightly. “I know it’s stupid. I just don’t want to miss anything that I want to have later.”

“You don’t need to hold on to me hacking up blood,” Chara quips, or tries to, because halfway through their voice goes croaky and their face creases with pain. They breathe in, then out, slow and sharp. “God, I’m tired.”

Silence. “Do you want me to get Mom?” you offer, grave with double meaning.

Chara closes their eyes. The bruises beneath them are deep purple; it makes their face look like a skull. “No,” they say at last. “Stay with me.”

And they fight their left hand out from under the covers, too, stretching it weakly towards you.

You put the camera down on your own bed, and your body blocks the shot for a while as you cross the room to sit at Chara’s bedside. You rest your arms and face on the duvet; Chara’s wasted hand settles on your head, behind your ear.

In the shadow of the bed, at the angle, it is impossible to make out Chara’s expression. Even their fingers scritching the back of your head are a vague flicker. But your faint sobs and hiccups are perfectly audible.

You stay there for a long time, even after the tape has already run out.

 

 

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

Your mother’s voice: “Chara… can you hear me? We want you to wake up…”

Your father’s voice: “Chara! You have to stay determined! You can’t give up… You are the future of humans and monsters…”

You’re hardly even aware of the camcorder between your hands, though it does you good to worry its case with your fingers. You have bigger things to worry about right now, like Chara’s closed eyes, like their too-pale skin, like their breath going thready and the awful whistling rattle it makes in their throat, like the old blood limning their mouth, like their silence.

You can barely make them out through your tears anyway, so you rest your forehead against the edge of their mattress, wishing that they’ll just lift their hand and pat your head, or tease you lovingly for being a big crybaby the way they used to.

“Psst—Chara…” you whisper, here where your parents won’t hear you. “Please wake up… I don’t like this plan anymore.”

But nobody answers you. You’re left to remind yourself of the plan, of why you’re doing all this, by yourself.

You have to be strong for them now.


End file.
